


Professional Interest

by shadow_lover



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bickering, Frottage, Hair Washing, Haircuts, M/M, Premature Ejaculation, Touch-Starved, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-25 22:32:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12045660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Because he’d definitely been noticing something different about Noiz over the past few weeks. A subtle, but increasingly apparent change. At first, he’d been able to tolerate it, but in recent days, whenever he saw the brat, he couldn’t think about anything else. Even the gaudy piercings and unattractive scowl and abysmal fashion sense couldn’t distract from—“Do you want to fuck me or something?” Noiz asked.





	Professional Interest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



> Post-canon AU where everyone gets Scrapped.
> 
> Happy Press Start, chicago_ruth, and I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed the assignment :)

Koujaku hadn’t expected to spend this much time with Aoba’s weird new friends. But one “thank fuck we’re alive” happy hour turned into two, and then into a tradition. And Koujaku was never one to leave a drink unfinished, which was why he was still sitting there finishing his third sake after the others left.

Well, most of the others.

“The hell are you staring at?” Noiz asked, glowering over his drink. He wasn’t wearing the usual awful button-down and tie, but the black long-sleeve patterned with lime-green rabbit heads was possibly worse.

Koujaku nearly snapped back, then cut himself off, and just smirked instead. Restraint was easier now after the events in Platinum Jail—and, well. He’d figured out over the past few months that silence annoyed Noiz even more than goading. 

“I’m not staring,” he said mildly, which was a filthy lie. Because he’d definitely been noticing something different about Noiz over the past few weeks. A subtle, but increasingly apparent change. At first, he’d been able to tolerate it, but in recent days, whenever he saw the brat, he couldn’t think about anything else. Even the gaudy piercings and unattractive scowl and abysmal fashion sense couldn’t distract from—

“Do you want to fuck me or something?” Noiz asked.

“No,” Koujaku said, wincing. “You just really, really need a haircut.”

Noiz’s scowl didn’t waver. “My hair is fine.”

“It really isn’t. The shape is all wrong. Whoever cut it didn’t know how to let it grow out gracefully. You look like a disfigured dandelion.”

Noiz downed the rest of his drink—still half-full, and he swallowed it down as easy as breathing. His long throat moved with it. Then he slammed the glass down. “You look like Tae-san’s curtains, so fuck off.”

Rage flashed through Koujaku. First of all, his kimono did _not_ , and second of all, how dare he insult Tae-san’s interior design taste. Again, he swallowed the fury down. After a few calming breaths, he gritted out. “I’m not insulting you, you idiot. I’m _offering_.”

Noiz stared more blankly than usual. “Offering.”

“To cut your hair. Yes.” He wondered how much he had to spell this out. Noiz was always annoying, but not usually this stupid. “I’m a hair-stylist.”

“I know that.” Noiz looked away. If Koujaku didn’t know better, he’d think he was embarrassed.

He seized on the moment of weakness. “Come on, rabbit-head. Scared of a little haircut?”

“Fine.” Noiz shoved to his feet. He’d reacquired his habitual smirk—the one that bared glinting-sharp teeth and didn’t reach his eyes at all. “If it’ll make you shut up about it. But you’re paying for drinks next week.”

He’d stalked from the bar before Koujaku had a chance to stop him. Koujaku groaned and chugged the rest of his glass, then raced to catch up. He couldn’t remember whether Noiz had ever been to his salon or not—he thought not—but without discussion, they headed in the right direction.

The streets of Midorijima blared and echoed around them. Noiz was silent and sulky, which suited Koujaku fine. He spent the walk contemplating Noiz’s profile, the shape of his head, the line of his neck. He could do a basic trim—well, a _better_ basic trim—or shape it more, go trendier, bring out the cheekbones. It was probably too much to hope that Noiz would let him color it too, but going slightly lighter or darker would bring out the green of his—

“You sure you don’t want to fuck me?” Noiz asked, side-eyeing him. 

Koujaku growled and jerked his eyes forward. “Definitely sure.”

Fucking kid. There was absolutely zero chance Koujaku wanted to fuck him. Maybe— _maybe_ —he’d occasionally contemplate a more effective means of silencing that bratty mouth. But that was it. His interest now was purely self-centered and professional. 

They reached the salon, and he fumbled for his key. He held the door open because he was a goddamn gentleman, but Noiz held still on the threshold. His scowl was gone, replaced by blankness. 

“I changed my mind,” he said. He had one hand in his pocket, and the other was twisting one of the weird rabbit cubes around. “This is dumb.”

Koujaku counted to ten; it didn’t help. He leaned against the doorway and counted to ten again, which helped a bit, because it gave him time to really look at Noiz, the way he was fiddling with that rabbit, the way he wasn’t quite meeting Koujaku’s eyes. He looked like Koujaku was offering him free dental work, not a free haircut.

“Fine,” Koujaku said carefully. “You can back out. But tell me why.”

He thought Noiz would refuse for a second. But after another moment of fiddling, Noiz said, “I haven’t gotten a haircut since Platinum Jail.”

 _I can tell_ , Koujaku almost said, but then he remembered exactly what happened in Platinum Jail, and what Aoba had told him—in strictest confidence—about each of the others afterwards, and how Scrap had changed them.

“Aoba told me about your feeling thing,” he confessed.

“I figured he had.”

Koujaku sighed. Noiz was being fucking annoying as usual, but he looked so barely-together and young that Koujaku was having a hard time staying mad. Maybe that was some of his own progress too. “Look. Haircuts don’t hurt. That’s one thing that won’t have changed.”

He had met exactly one person with sensation in his hair, and he was willing to bet Noiz wasn’t going to be the second. 

“That’s not what I’m—” Noiz’s jaw tightened. “Ugh. Better you than anyone else, I guess. It’s not like I care what you think of me. But you’re buying _three_ rounds next week.”

Koujaku did not mention that usually, people paid _him_ to get haircuts. He waved Noiz in, and firmly shut the door behind him. He’d had difficult, anxious clients before, but this was a whole new kaleidoscope of things that could go very wrong. Another glance at the back of Noiz’s head, the lines of his neck and shoulders under that awful green shirt, and he decided keeping it simple was the way to go. Just a trim—a _better_ trim—to minimize the need to negotiate. 

“There’s beer in the backroom fridge,” Koujaku said. “Help yourself.”

Noiz didn’t. He just stood languid and bored-looking around while Koujaku set out scissors and clippers at the mirror, then pulled out a towel. He tossed it to Noiz, who put it over his shoulders when told. It covered up some of his stupid shirt, which was nice.

It was strange having Noiz in his space. He kept catching him out of the corner of his eye as he got ready—a blinding-bright spot of gold and green. Koujaku’s salon was rich colors and trendy prints and furniture chosen because it didn’t look nearly as cheap as it was. Noiz, though, didn’t seem to care how tacky he looked. He never seemed to care about anything, except computers and winning and being a brat.

At least he was quiet now. Which was a good thing, Koujaku told himself. There was no way he missed the whining and jabs.

“All right,” he said, heading towards the sink. Noiz followed without another word.

The sinks were behind a wooden screen painted with birds and fish. It served to dim the light from the wide front windows, creating a more relaxing, intimate atmosphere with his clients. The sinks were set out a few feet from the wall, enough that he could stand behind them as he worked, instead of awkwardly leaning over.

Noiz sat down as directed. “It’s pretty dark back here. Sure you’ll be able to see, old man? Do you need your bifocals?”

Koujaku hissed. But he didn’t like to work angry, so he took another deep breath, and let the tension flow out of him into the calm space. He wondered how much of Noiz’s badmouthing had always been defensiveness and poor socialization.

“I could do this blind,” he said, and turned the water on. “Tip your head a bit further back.”

Koujaku waited until the water warmed—a minute longer than he’d have liked, but it wasn’t bad for Midorijima—and then unhooked the spray nozzle. Noiz jerked when the warm water first touched his head, then went perfectly still. Koujaku considered apologizing. He would have, with a smile, for any other client, but Noiz might take it as an insult. So instead, he kept rinsing and said, “So, are you still playing Rhyme?”

Noiz snorted. “Professional small talk?”

“It’s a habit.” 

Even from this angle, Koujaku could see the eyeroll. But Noiz said, “Nah, I haven’t played in a while. I’ve been taking some more time-consuming projects than I used to. Freelancing.” And from there, Koujaku could keep the conversation going and light as he continued rinsing Noiz’s hair. The pale gold fluff darkened and sleekened under the warm water. Noiz’s eyes were closed, and his pincushion of a face looked almost calm.

He was almost pretty when he wasn’t talking.

Koujaku gently touched his fingers to Noiz’s temple, and Noiz only flinched a bit. Koujaku just kept talking as he ran his fingers through Noiz’s hair, making sure he’d wet everything down. Satisfied, he turned off the water and reached for the shampoo.

He’d grabbed one of his pricier bottle of brightening, clarifying shampoo, because he intended to give Noiz the best haircut of his goddamn life. Let him notice how great his hair felt every time he saw it, every time he touched it—let him remember what a good fucking person Koujaku was. 

As soon as his lathered hands touched Noiz’s head, he could feel the tension. He frowned. Usually people were _more_ relaxed after the first rinse. He kept up the inane prattle, because he was a professional and could banter through an earthquake, and started working the lather in. Noiz’s hair was soft and slick between his fingers. He took his time massaging the foam in, rubbing down to the roots in slow, soothing circles against Noiz’s scalp.

Maybe it felt weird. Maybe it _did_ hurt, bizarrely. Koujaku wasn’t sure exactly how Scrap had worked for the kid. He rolled his shoulders, and tried to exude calm. He’d just have to take his time with this and get Noiz to relax. 

“The fuck is taking so long?” Noiz asked tightly.

“You need to use better shampoo,” Koujaku said.

Noiz still hadn’t relaxed by the time Koujaku started rinsing out the shampoo. He found himself hyperaware of the brat—the tense lines of his shoulders, his hands tight on the chair arms, that pinched brow and narrowed lips. He turned off the water again, and ran his hands over Noiz’s head.

He just meant to get out some of the water before he worked in the deep-conditioning mask. But as his fingers pushed and slid along Noiz’s scalp, he was startled to hear a strangled whimper.

He froze, hands still cupped around Noiz’s skull, and almost asked if that hurt, until he looked at Noiz again—really _looked_ at him—and realized no. That wasn’t it at all. The light was dim, but not dim enough to hide the faint blush cresting his cheeks.

Definitely not dim enough to hide the telltale tenting in Noiz’s cargo pants.

Koujaku’s hands fell to the edge of the sink, and he said in shock, “You’re getting off on this.”

Noiz’s eyes flew open, and he practically flew out of the chair. The towel fell from his shoulders. “Stop projecting, old man,” he snapped, backing up. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” Koujaku lunged forward, catching him by the wrist before he could run off. He half-expected Noiz to break away, but instead Noiz just made another small, choked sound, and looked down to where Koujaku’s wet hand was grasped tight around his wrist. Koujaku kept his eyes strictly on Noiz’s face, and watched the panic give way to need as he rubbed his thumb slowly, slowly up the inside of his wrist.

He tried to remember the last time he’d touched Noiz that wasn’t a punch or a shove or an accidental bump on Tae-san’s couch. He said quietly, “It’s not just pain, is it.”

Noiz flushed, averting his eyes again, but still didn’t pull away. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

He looked really young, half-drowned, with his hair slick with water, his shoulders getting wet. Koujaku couldn’t help reaching out and tracing a droplet’s slick path down Noiz’s neck.

Noiz shuddered. 

“I’m barely even touching you,” Koujaku said.

Noiz hissed, a spark of his usual fire back in his eyes. “Don’t fucking _tease_ me.”

“Fine. I won’t tease,” Koujaku said, and shoved Noiz against the wall.

He was just fucking with the kid, he told himself—just wanted to take him down a peg. This wasn’t because he was _fascinated_ by how responsive he was. Not because of the whimper as they hit the wall, and the gasp as Koujaku pressed against him, slipped a thigh between his.

It wasn’t because Koujaku had always loved a challenge.

“Look at me,” Koujaku said, and Noiz did, so he could watch those green eyes widen as he took Noiz’s right hand in his left, twined their fingers together, and pressed it gently to the wall. Koujaku’s right hand lifted again to smooth the wet hair back from his temple, to gently caress the heated skin—

Noiz groaned, rutting against his thigh. He was so hard against him, and Koujaku had a thousand quips about desperate teenagers, but somewhere along the way he’d gotten too breathless for that too. Instead, he squeezed Noiz’s hand, caressed his cheek—fuck, the way Noiz leaned into that—traced his thumb over the soft curve of his lip. Every tiny touch and movement drew a new whimper, spurred Noiz to jerk harder against Koujaku’s thigh.

This was barely anything. He wondered how Noiz would react if he actually touched him. If he undid that stupid rabbit belt and blew him. The thought was electric. Koujaku suddenly realized he was hard, too. It was a distant arousal—he was far more caught up in Noiz, who was now biting his lip.

Koujaku wanted to kiss him, but he thought even this overwhelmed, pliant Noiz might bite his tongue off. Instead, he leaned in, pressed his lips under Noiz’s jaw, down his neck—

And when his teeth scraped against Noiz’s pulse, Noiz groaned, froze, shuddered against him. His free hand twisted desperately in Koujaku’s kimono, and his other hand tightened painfully in Koujaku’s grasp.

They slumped, panting, against the wall together.

“Fuck,” Noiz muttered into Koujaku’s hair, and Koujaku barely restrained himself from laughing. Instead he just kissed Noiz’s neck again, and started to draw away.

He was oddly disappointed he hadn’t gotten to blow Noiz after all. But that could wait, as could his own arousal. There were more urgent things to think about. Now—

“Now,” he said breathlessly. “About that haircut.”


End file.
